


Smile and Smile and Be a Villain

by Corycides



Series: 100 Fics in 100 Days [43]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Gen, Poker, Whiskey - Freeform, stabby stabby death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 21:55:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just how did Miles get that bar in Chicago? Hard work, prudent money management and a loan from the bank? Yeah, that's not how it happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smile and Smile and Be a Villain

The whiskey tasted like iodine and smoke, the burn raw enough to take the skin off Miles' tongue. He drank it anyhow, leaning his elbows on the cracked marble counter of the bar. The fire blazing in the corner of the room, smoke leaving powdery stains on the grubby, flocked wallpaper, pulled thick sweat from his pores.

After the chill outside it made his stomach sour.

More whiskey would help with that. Miles tossed back the greasy, slick dregs and nodded to the hard-faced woman behind the bar, tilting his glass expectantly. She glanced past his shoulder, hard blue eyes checking with the slick bastard in the corner. A second later she fetched a jam jar full of the dirty brown liquor from under the bar, wrapping the tail of her shirt around her hands to twist the cap loose.

'Enjoy,' she said, sloshing a measure into his glass.

'Can't make me.'

She gave him a sliding, bored look and walked away down the bar to adjust the valve on the still. Miles drank and waited. It didn't take long. A hand full of heavy rings dropped on his shoulder, filling his nose with the smell of cologne.

'We're closing soon,' the slick bastard said. 'If you want to stay though, we have a game in back?'

'What game?' Miles asked, glancing side-long at the man. Greying sandy hair topped an affable, clean cut face, with dead green eyes thumbed deep under his brows. A cheerful grin showed off a chipped tooth and a scar where a piercing had been ripped out of his lip.

'Poker, man,' he chuckled, squeezing at Miles' shoulder. 'Ain't worth my while otherwise.'

Miles licked the taste of whiskey off his teeth and what the fuck, why not? He was planning on giving them whatever gold was left in his pockets anyhow. If they rolled him, it'd hurt probably less than the hangover he had coming. If they killed him, at least somebody would dig a grave to kick him in.

And maudlin already? The whiskey might taste like shit, but it did the job.

'Long as the booze keeps coming, I'm in,' Miles said. He slid off the stool, testing his legs. Not bad, dancing might be beyond him but he could probably walk in a straight line. 'Where's the game?'

Those dead eyes flicked over Miles – something about seeing him upright instead of doing an alcoholic's slouch at the bar (why straighten up when it just took the whiskey further away from your mouth?) - tweaked his survival instincts. The lure of easy cash and pre-judgement out-voted it though, and his smirk crawled back onto his face. He clapped Miles roughly on the back.

'Follow me.'

 

* * *

 

The poker had been a mistake, like doing anything that dragged his brain out of the souse of inebriation was a mistake. It kept remembering things, Like he'd spent a week in a Starbucks in Pikeshore, Wisconsin, snowed in with Jeremy, Bass and two crates of ammo they couldn't afford to ditch so they could hike out. To stop from killing each other, they'd played poker for packets of sugar.

It hadn't always been shit was the thing. Sometimes it had, cold asses and aching bones and all, been...like belonging. He figured if he got drunk enough, he'd stop missing it. So far, he'd not found a bar with enough booze to test that, and trying to focus on his greasy hand of cards was disappointingly sobering.

The thugs loitering around the edges of the room, in front of the big, boarded up windows, didn't help.

'I'm in,' he said, on a 2-8 off-suit. There was blood on his roll of militia dollars, but he didn't think anyone in this room was going to turn their nose up at it.

He lost the hand and the one after that, tossing his stakes in and his drinks down. His lack of concern over his losses made the thugs discount him. Besides, he was only an appetiser. The sharks were here for the other players.

They were friends with the slick bastard – he'd introduced himself, but Miles wasn't dredging that out of his brain – or thought they were. Two well-padded traders, with plenty of militia dollars in their wallet. They were all smiles and jokes until the stakes started to rise and the cards stopped going their way.

Rolls of fabric slipped through their fingers first, then a cask of spices and their spare horse. They won a bit – every time the more cautious player made sounds about leaving, a sudden win would keep his partner glued to the table – but not nearly as much as they lost.

Not Miles' problem.

'I'll raise you fifty,' the slick bastard said.

Miles matched it cautiously. He actually didn't have a bad hand, king high straight, but he didn't think he should win. Not this hand. The slick bastard reminded Miles of Drexel, the same shiny skin to him. Like a film of immoral grease that make sure nothing every stuck. 

Just without the General at his back, making sure justice gave him a wide berth.

The others matched it.

'Got a good hand, eh,' slick bastard said, all smiles still. 'Let's see if it matches mine. I'm all in.'

He shoved all his winnings into the middle of the table.

'I...I can't match that,' the eager player said. His mouth opened and closed, trembling at the corners. 'We've nothing left.'

Slick bastard pursed scarred lips. 'You have that pretty daughter of yours. Put her in and we'll call it even.'

He winked and laughed like it was a joke, winning nervous smiles. Miles folded and grabbed the last of the whiskey. He didn't need to be sober enough to remember this.

'Sure,' the eager player said, shaking his head. 'We put Phoebe in. Show your hand, Donal.'

Oh yeah, that was his name.

Donal fanned his cards out on the table. Two pair, fours and fives. And maybe it hadn't been a joke, because a desperate, relieved smile broke over the eager player's face as he flipped his guards.

'Full house,' he said, laughing a little. 'I win.'

He reached for the pot. Donal grabbed his wrist, a lazy smile twisting his mouth. 'Nope. House rule. Pairs win.'

'N...no. That's not how you play.'

'It is here, Don't be a bad loser,' Donal said. He jerked a thumb at Miles. 'He's not complaining is he?'

The eager player was still spluttering indignantly about cheating and rules. Like either of that mattered any more. His partner had a better grip on unfolding events, the colour draining out of his face as his eyes flicked over the waiting thugs.

'Shut up,' he spat through thin lips at his partner. He stared at Donal. 'We were never going to win, never had a chance, did we?'

Donal chuckled. 'Not once I saw that pretty little girl of yours. What is she, fifteen? Sixteen? Now you know you can't be taking a sweet piece like that around places like this? I'm doing you a favour. At least she'll have roof over her head here.'

Fifteen or sixteen. That would be about the same age as Danny, a little younger than Charlie. Miles rolled bad whiskey around his mouth and wondered if Ben had brought them through a place like this. If they'd met someone like this guy, like Drexel.

'Leave the girl out of it,' he said.

Donal blinked and turned like he'd forgotten Miles was there. 'And why would I want to do that?' he asked.

'This is none of my business, long as you leave the girl out,' Miles said.

Donal laughed. 'See, that's almost right,' he said. 'This is just none of your business.'

He nodded to one of the thugs and Miles punched the glass of bad whiskey into his face. It shattered, splitting one of those deep-set green eyes and tearing his face in bloody rents. Donal screamed and grabbed his face, trying to hold his dripping eye in.

They'd taken Miles sword on the way in. He took one of the first man who came at him, breaking his neck with a heel-punch to the jaw. The abrupt, personal violence felt thickly good. He'd forgotten that. Hurting people was even better than drink for stopping feeling things.

'Kill the fucking bastard!' Donal yelled. 'Slice him open like-'

Miles turned on his heel and cut his throat, the poorly tended edge sawing through flesh. One surprised green eye stared at him for a second, then the slick bastard dropped, bleeding out his life on the once expensive carpet.

'Since you won't be getting paid,' Miles said. 'Anyone want to run?'

No-one did. Apparently once a Chicago thug was bought, he stayed bought. Miles couldn't really say he minded. It took three more dead men on the floor before the last two broke and ran.

The traders got their stakes back; Miles got a bar.

  
  



End file.
